


Trustworthy

by Aria_Lerendeair



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Bit of porn?, M/M, Prompt Fic, Wing!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Lerendeair/pseuds/Aria_Lerendeair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where creatures known as Fallen exist, Sherlock Holmes still manages to meet John Watson. And still manages to be surprised by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyLittleCornerOfSherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/gifts).



> So this was written for the wonderful, wonderful MyLittleCornerOfSherlock, who wanted Wing!Lock (or Superlock, depending on my mood), BAMF-yness, porn aaaaand, that sums it up. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> ALSO: Much of what I used to structure this fic (as well as some dialogue lines) was pulled from A Study in Pink, which I do not own, have no rights to and does not belong to me in any way. It is meant to convey the same sense of camaraderie that was established between Sherlock and John in that episode.

 

 

 

 

They were rare.  That was all Sherlock knew about them.  He’d heard of the Fallen, of course.  Everyone had.  Hid in plain sight, looked exactly like humans.  They were loyal to a fault, and once you earned their loyalty, they would never betray you.

 

However, that wasn’t the interesting piece.  It was the wings.  True wings.  The Fallen had found a way to hide them so they could not be tracked by the large wing span exploding from their back.  Now his latest case involved a suspected Fallen, but the suspect had disappeared.  Sherlock knew the ability to fly and simply leave wherever you were at any given time was a heavy incentive to simply never return.

 

No one had seen any sign of the suspect in over forty-eight hours.  Which was the reason Lestrade had come to him asking for help in the first place.  Sherlock shifted on the couch and steepled his fingers under his chin.  There had to be a way to track the Fallen.  Perhaps they were able to find their own?  Would they recognize some intrinsic sign that humans were simply not able to see?

 

He required additional information.  The Fallen were notoriously protective of any information of their race.  The likelihood that one would speak with him and be truthful was slim.  Interesting.  This was certainly a proper puzzle.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at the window.  Three hours had passed.  Ah.  Late for the appointment with his would-be flat mate.  Some old friend of Mike’s.  Casual acquaintance more than friend.  Friend had been a word for the past.  Yet Mike insisted.

 

He took a quick look at the man standing in the doorway.  Military.  Ex.  Wounded in action.  Hm.  War hero with nowhere to live?  Interesting.  Family deceased?  Insufficient data.  “Yes, yes, come in.  You must be the man Mike is convinced can put up with me.  I’ll prove you wrong shortly and we can both continue about our days.”  Sherlock closed his eyes.

 

“Is that how you greet all of your potential flatmates?  No wonder you are still living on your own.”

 

His eyes snapped open and he rose from the couch in a flurry of motion, stalking over to the man now grinning at him.  “Only the ones I am certain will not suit.”

 

“How do you know we will not suit?  You met me thirty seconds ago and you know nothing about me.”

 

A chance to demonstrate how incorrect that assumption was.  Lovely.  “I know you have just been invalided home, ex-military, clearly army, wounded in action, unlikely to have a large family since you are a war hero looking for a place to live.  You were an Army Doctor, that is the only way you would have trained at Barts with Mike and have a close enough relationship for him to suggest you come here to see me today.”

 

“Well, he certainly wasn’t exaggerating about you either.  Brilliant, bit of an arse and blunt to a fault.”

 

Sherlock frowned.  The man was still grinning at him.  Interesting.  “What else did he say?”

 

“That your name was Sherlock Holmes, you are something called a Consulting Detective, you have next to no personal skills and your kitchen is likely to have been repossessed as a laboratory.”

 

He hummed.  Perhaps Mike was more observant than previously considered.  More likely that he is not a fool as assumed.  Not as much of a fool.  Still foolish.   “And you are?”

 

“John Watson.”

 

Sherlock studied the blonde man in front of him.  His lips curled in a small smirk.  “Mike is not wrong in his assessment.”

 

“Yeah, he used to be a pretty good judge of character back in school.  When can I move in?”

 

“Whenever you like.  You’ve met Mrs. Hudson?”

 

John nodded.  “Lovely lady downstairs?”

 

Sherlock waved his hand.  “Yes, yes.  She’ll be the one to give you a key.  Utilize it as you like.  I  come and go as I please and sometimes don’t talk for days on end.”  He stalked back over to the couch and fell back onto it again.  “You may leave now.  The upstairs bedroom is the one free.”

 

He heard the doctor sigh in frustration and turn to the door.  Excellent.  He would not see him again.  Must tell Mike to stop the flatmate crusade.  Nothing to be gained by it.  Only frustration and wasted time.  Much more useful for him to think on the Fallen.

  
  


  
  


 

Sherlock entered the flat and flung his scarf and jacket at the couch in frustration.  Nothing.  Still nothing.  All knowledge was superficial and made-up at best.  There might be some marginal basis in fact, but without a Fallen to ask, he had no way of verifying the information.  Sherlock forced himself to take a slow breath and walked over to the kitchen.  He had nicotine patches somewhere.    
  
  
“You look furious.  Bad day?”    
  
  
Sherlock froze and turned back to the living room.  John Watson.  In the spare armchair.  Fresh, but not new tea beside him.  Had been there for at least twenty minutes.  Newspaper out.  No shoes on.  Left by the door.  Currently staring at him, smirking.  “One might say so.  May I ask as to your purpose here?”    
  
  
John raised an eyebrow.  “I live here, or have you forgotten yesterday?”    
  
  
Sherlock was rarely surprised.  So rarely, he could tell you the last time he had been surprised by a person.  It had happened more than ten years previous to this occassion.  Yet...this Army doctor had decided he was a suitable flatmate?  
  
  
“You must be truly desperate for accomodation if you are here.”   
  
  
John shrugged.  “No, truly desperate would define living with my parents.”  
  
  
Sherlock felt his lips quirk in a quick smile.  “Noted.”  The sound of a police car caught his attention.  Another attack.  The car stopped just outside the flat.    
  
  
“Trouble?”  John closed the paper and stood up, walking over to the window to join Sherlock.    
  
  
Sherlock turned just as Lestrade bounded into the flat.  “What’s different?”    
  
  
“They left a note.”    
  
  
He made an angry noise.  “Victim notes won’t help.”    
  
  
“No.  The Fallen.”    
  
  
Sherlock froze.  The Fallen had left a note?  “Go.  I’ll follow.  Text me the location.  Allow no one to touch anything!”  He did not register Lestrade leaving.  His mind was racing.  A note.  What note?  To whom?  What would it say?    
  
  
He turned to John.  “Settle yourself.”  Sherlock waved to the flat and collected his coat and scarf.  A note.  Why would they leave a note?  Why now?    
  
  
“You’re investigating the Fallen?”    
  
  
John sounded, strange.  Sherlock could not place the emotion in his voice.  Frowning, he turned to the Doctor again.  “No.  A murderer.  Who happens to be Fallen.”    
  
  
“Murdering humans?”    
  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “Yes.”    
  
  
John hummed, glancing toward the window.  “Unusual of them.  They normally would not bother.  No challenge.”    
  
  
Adrenaline.  Such a useful bodily substance.  It raced through him at the idea, the mere idea that an army doctor would know anything about the Fallen.  “You know this how?”    
  
  
“They don’t hide in Afghanistan.  Smaller towns, they walk the streets, wings exposed.”  John shrugged.  “They are thought to be angels.”  
  
  
“Come with me.”  Sherlock demanded.  He knew Fallen.  John.  He knew of the Fallen.  More than a book, or supposed scholar.    
  
  
John didn’t hesitate.  “Of course.”    
  
  
Elation.  Useless emotion.  Sherlock opened the door to the flat and left in a rush.  No need for further conversation.  There was a murder scene to attend to.  He hailed a cab and within moments they were on their way.  
  
  
John only waited a moment.  “Why would the police come to you?”    
  
  
“I am a Consulting Detective.  I invented the job.  The police consult me when they are out of their depth.  Which is always.”  Another pleased smile crossed his face when John snorted and smiled.  “Tell me about the Fallen.”    
  
  
He settled back into the cab cushions and raised an eyebrow.  “Ask me questions.  There are some things they have asked me not to share.”    
  
  
“Motive for murder?”  

  
“Pride, likely.”  John said, closing his eyes as he relaxed.    
  


Sherlock digested that, his next question at the ready.  “Do they live together?”  
  
  
“Most of the ones I saw in Afghanistan were solitary.  Exception being mated pairs.”  

  
His curiosity could not be contained.  “Mated pairs?”

  
“Fallen mate for life, no matter their chosen mate.  Human or Fallen.  They do not travel in groups or have flocks.”  John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock.  “How many murders?”  

  
“Seven, now."  
  
  
“Are they related?”    
  


“No.”  Scotland Yard had devoted most of their resources to discovering the connection between each of the victims.  Not a considerable amount of brain power, but they had still lacked results.

  
“FIrst victim.  Tell me about him?  Or her?”   
  
  
“Child.  Seventeen.  Graduated high school, murdered after spending the evening with friends celebrating her college acceptance.”  
  
  
John stared out the window.  A child.  “Cause of death?”    
  
  
“Strangulation.  Hand to the throat.  Consistent across all victims.”    
  
  
John kept his silence.  A dangerous Fallen then.  “How did you know they were done by a Fallen?”  
  
  
“Feathers left at every crime scene.”    
  
  
“Feathers?”  John spun back around to Sherlock.  “What types of feathers?”  
  
  
Sherlock studied John.  Cheek and jaw muscles tense.  The feathers meant something.  Eyes intent, certain.  Something important.  “I have pictures at the flat.  I will show you after.”  
  
  
John nodded.    
  
  
Sherlock continued to study John.  Fascinating.  Doctor John Watson knew far more than he was letting on.    
  
  
“What interest in Fallen do you have after you catch this one?”    
  
  
Sherlock frowned at the question.  “None.  I find them fascinating, of course.  I had been certain that I would need to assistance of one to finish this case.”  Another question occurred to him.  “Can they communicate?  In their own language?”  
  
  
John chuckled.  “Of course.”    
  
  
“Do you understand it?”  Sherlock clenched his hand against his knees.  The answer was an important one.  

  
John shook his head and smiled at Sherlock.  “Nothing beyond a few words I was able to pick up from being around their kind in Afghanistan.”    
  
  
It was better than this previous range of knowledge.  “Teach me.”    
  
  
“No.  I’ll let you know if I see or hear anything.”

  
  
  


Sherlock frowned.  “You must tell me verbatim.  I must be able to understand.”  
  
  
John snorted.  “You’re assuming I will be able to read anything at all.”

  
“Not an assumption.”  Sherlock said.  The cab stopped next to the police cars in the middle of the street.  Sherlock handed over the fare and slid out of the car.  “Come along John.”    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words between the -'s that are bolded are being spoken in the Fallen language. Sherlock can't understand these. Just as an FYI.
> 
> I know this isn't a super BAMF-Y moment, but I liked the idea that John knows how to use his strengths to his advantage, even against a stronger opponent. That strikes me as very JOHN.

 

 

 

 

  
John followed behind Sherlock, watching as he immediately stalked (there really was no word for it other than that) towards the two detectives standing behind the police tape.    
  
“Anderson, Donovan.”  
  
Donovan scowled.  “Freak.”    
  
“Always so pleasant Sally.”  
  
“What are you doing here?”    
  
“I believe I was invited.”    
  
John watched the verbal tennis match, his eyes wide.  His roommate clearly had no fear of being arrested.    
  
“You’ll only contaminate the crime scene.”    
  
“Ah, Anderson.  I thought the IQ of the room had been significantly lowered.”  
  
“Oi!  Donovan!  Anderson!”  Lestrade called, striding over to the police tape.  He spotted Sherlock only a moment later.  “Good.  Took your time getting here. Let’s go.”  
  
Sherlock stepped under the tape, raising a disdainful eyebrow at Anderson.  The poor excuse for a forensic investigator was far more likely to have contaminated the scene.  “Come along John.”    
  
“Who’s this?”    
  
Sherlock had strode past all of them.  “My assistant.  John!”  
  
John slipped past the three detectives and trailed over Sherlock.  Apparently his word was good enough.  He wasn’t going to argue if that was the case.  Nothing else for it but to follow Sherlock.  
  
John was behind him in moments.  Sherlock gave a pleased smile.  No need to pander to police.  How appropriate.  “Doctor?”  
  
The scene was gruesome.  John took a deep breath and stared at it.  The woman was almost, perhaps the best word to use was shredded.  Her skin was torn apart, deep gashes along her arms and legs, her stomach spilling onto the ground.  There had been a message though.  John looked at the wall the woman was laying in front of and stared at the words written in blood.  
  
Sherlock followed John’s gaze and stared at the symbols painted on the wall.  Linguists all over the world had been trying to unlock the language of the Fallen, but had been unsuccessful.  A quick glance at the doctor showed a strange reaction.  White faced.  Hands clenched into fists.  Posture tense.  John knew what it said.  “Tell me.”    
  
John shook his head.  “I don’t know it all.  But I know two of the words.”    
  
“Which two?”    
  
“The Fallen word for humans.  And death.”    
  
“Which symbols mean that?”  Sherlock asked, striding closer to the wall, careful not to step in the large pool of blood.    
  
John turned back to the body.  “I was wrong about the reason for the murders.  I need to make a phone call.”  He stepped away from the body and walked further into the alleyway.  His phone was out of his pocket and in his hand in an instant.  
  
Sherlock watched John walk far enough to be unheard if he spoke quietly.  Difficult.  Who would he want to call?  He turned back to the body.  White.  Caucasian.  Only two other victims of same race.  Younger than the other victims.  Early twenties.  Brunette.  Natural blonde.  Roots showing.  Manicured nails.  Makeup on her face.  Monetary struggles, her roots were showing.  Could afford comforts normally, but not before her death.  Wedding ring.  Pristine condition.  Happily married.  How rare.  
  
A quick glance to the side showed John talking and spacing while he spoke on the phone.  He was not speaking english.  Perhaps Arabic.  Would have picked it up in Afghanistan.  Sherlock looked back to the symbols on the wall.  John knew the rest of the message.  Much more than two simple words.  What was he hiding?  Why?  
  
John hung up and walked back over to the crime scene.  Dangerous.  All of this was so dangerous now.  He flexed his shoulders, tension riding high in his back.    
  
Sherlock watched John attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders.  Unsuccessful based on the wince.  “Your call?”  
  
“Nothing to do with this.”  John looked up at the sky.    
  
“You are poor at lying John.  I wouldn’t suggest attempting it again.”  Sherlock said, looking at the symbols on the wall once again.  “What do they say?”    
  
John kept his eyes on the sky.  “Humans and Death.  Those are the only words I recognize.”    
  
“Your reaction when you first saw the words says otherwise.”  Sherlock stepped next to John and glanced up at the sky.    
  
“I reacted to the body.”    
  
Sherlock chuckled.  “No.  Your pulse did not elevate until you saw the words.”    
  
“You are-”  John finally caught sight of what he had been looking for.  “Excuse me, Sherlock.”  He jogged back to the police tape and slipped under it, continuing down the street.    
  
John or case.  Sherlock turned to Lestrade.  “Send me the crime scene photographs and case.”  Not bothering to wait for a response, he left the scene, striding after John.  No need for John to realize he was following yet.  
  
John ducked into another alley and took off at a sprint.  Not much time.  He must hurry.  His heart pounded as he took another turn.  He could hear the sound of wings.    
  
Sherlock continued after John, barely catching sight of him as he turned into the alley to follow.  John was far faster than he would have assumed of an ex-Army Doctor.  He managed to keep pace and wait around the corner when John finally stopped in another street, staring at the brick in front of him.    
  
“I can feel you.  Come out.”  John ordered, his voice soft.    
  
Sherlock debated ducking back behind the corner and hiding from John.  It was not worth it.  There was no shame in having followed him.  He stepped around the corner just as a tall, broad shouldered man appeared in front of John.  His eyes widened.    
  
“They send a measly falcon after me?  I do not merit more than this!?”    
  
John stepped closer, his face sympathetic.  “You are in pain.  I understand.  But this cannot continue, you are punishing them for-”  
  
“They killed my mate!” The man roared.    
  
“She flew during daylight hours without cover.  In hostile territory.”  John said, his voice still soft as he advanced on the eagle.  He would, perhaps, only have one chance to incapcitate him.  
  
“She is dead!”   
  
Sherlock watched, fascinated.  It was a display of power and dominance.  What was John doing?  The golden eyes of the taller man suddenly snapped to him.  He froze again.    
  
“Filthy human!”  The man snarled.    
  
John looked over his shoulder and went white when he saw Sherlock standing there, his eyes wide and curious.  Damn that human!  He broke the gaze between the two of them by moving in front of Sherlock.  “I will not allow you to hurt him.”    
  
“Ha!”  He spat.  “He is not your mate little falcon!  I would smell you on him.  He will die, just like the others.  You would never win a fight against an eagle.  Why bother trying?”   
  
John shifted slowly, staring the other man down.    
  
Sherlock stared as huge speckled wings burst from the back of the ‘eagle’.  Fallen.  He was a Fallen.  An eagle.  He’d called John a falcon.  John was a Fallen.  Sherlock stared at John, watching his shoulders shift again.  John had wings.  Wings just like the man in front of him.    
  
No choice.  Sherlock would know.  He would leave tonight.  Go back to Afghanistan.  Safe there.  “ **-Stand down-.** ”    
  
“ **-Pretty little soldier-.** ” He scoffed.  “ **-What have I to fear from you?-** ”    
  
John moved, his wings bursting from his shoulders as he launched himself over the rogue eagle, grabbing both of his wings by the base before he could flee.  “ **-I might not be as strong as you, eagle.  But I am certainly faster.-** ”  He tightened his grip and winced when the eagle cried out in pain.  “ **-You will face judgement for the murder of innocents.  I suspect they will be lenient as you are grief-mad.-** ”  
  
“ **-Abomination!  Human lover!  Traitor!-** ”  
  
John yanked down on the eagle’s wings again, forcing him to his knees.  “ **-Enough!-** ”  He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring at them both, his look calculating and fascinated.  “Sherlock.  Stay out of his reach, I need you to dial a number.”  John waited until he had pulled out his phone before rattling the number off.  “Give them our address.  Hang up immediately.”  
  
The language of the Fallen was nothing compared to any other in the world.  There was no syntax, pattern of speech or other discernible elements that he could trace back to another language.  It was a variety of sounds, grunts and clicks.  The person on the phone answered in the same language.  Fallen.  They were all Fallen.  “Alley beyond Hastings.  Two blocks north of west side intersection.”  There was no answer, only the click of a phone.  He turned back to John, who looked to be straining.    
  
His hands were beginning to cramp from the position he was forced to hold when the two eagles appeared.  They both frowned at the sight of Sherlock.  “ **-My mate.-** ”  John silenced the protest the rogue was about to make with another hard yank.  He fell silent.  “ **-We met yesterday.  I have not had time to make a claim.  But he is mine.-** ”  They both gave a nod.    
  
John released the rogue and folded his wings against his back.  He itched to spread them again, to take wing.  It was an impossible urge.  He stepped towards Sherlock.  The Elders would handle the rogue from here.  He felt the Elders leave a moment later, the sound of their wings echoing around both he and Sherlock.  Sherlock was still staring at him, though not at his wings, instead he appeared to be focused on his face.    
  
“Your wings are different.”  

  
  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really a cliffhanger, right? Not really? Maybe?
> 
> Hope that this chapter lived up to the hype, thank you for everyone that has been reading so far! <3 Comment and criticisms are welcome!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What type of falcon is John?

  
  
  
  
  
John blinked.  Of all the reactions, that was the first time he had heard that.  “Yes.”  He tugged off the shredded remains of his shirt.  “Different breeds.  Just like humans.”    
  
Sherlock studied John.  The wings of the ‘eagle’ had been large and broad.  Meant for strength and power.  John’s were a warm chocolate color, but were slimmer and clearly designed for speed.  His eyes caught on the scar at John’s left shoulder. There was an echoing, large scar on his left wing.  “The injury that sent you home.”

 

Of all the reactions Sherlock could  have had, that had not touched his radar.  “Yes.”  
  
Sherlock stepped closer.  “You wounded both your wing and shoulder in the same accident?”  
  
John nodded.  “Yes.  But not in the way you are thinking.”  He spread his wings slowly, to their full span of almost fifteen feet.  The torn muscle pulled, protesting lack of use, but did not devolve into pain.  He needed to stretch more often.  
  
“Where do you hide them?”    
  
“We don’t.”    
  
Sherlock scoffed.  “You keep secrets now, after telling me all of this?”  
  
A chuckle escaped him before he thought better of it.  “No.  I will show you.  You are now one of the…”  John frowned, trying to think of a proper translation for the term.  English was a far newer language, and nuance was often lost within it.    
  
“The?”  
  
“The word does not translate well to English.  If I were to translated it from an equivalent Arabiac translation it would be ‘Highly Honoured’.  I suppose the closest in English would be ‘Trusted’.”  John frowned.    
  
“Because of you.  Whatever you told those other two.  You told them I could be trusted.” Sherlock nodded and brushed off his coat as he removed it.  John would attract attention without a shirt.  
  
John chuckled.  “Actually.  I told them you were my mate.”   
  
Sherlock turned sharply back to John.  “What?”  
  
“It was either that or let them kill you.  I assumed this would be the preferable option.”  John raised an eyebrow, daring Sherlock to contradict him.  “I could, of course, tell them otherwise and allow them to kill you.”    
  
Mate.  Mate of a Fallen.  Of John.  John trusted him.  Once a Fallen trusted, they did so for life.  He had earned John’s trust.  Strange.  How?  “Unless you plan to fly out of this alley, you will need to hide your wings.”  

  
Someday in the very near future, John would ask if he did that on purpose.  Asked the question John had not been expecting, just to throw him off.  “Told you already we don’t hide our wings.”  John grumbled, stretching both of his wings out, wincing as the scar tissue pulled again.  Definitely needed to stretch more often.   
  
“Then how do you plan to get out of here without attracting the attention of everyone in the street?”    
  
John chuckled.  He flexed his shoulders again and the wings shifted and began to melt into his back.  He arched his neck and closed his eyes, immediately missing the feel of those extra limbs flexing and shifting.  John stretched his arms over his head.  “There.”    
  
Sherlock strode closer to John.  “Where did you put them!” He growled, walking behind John to examine John’s back.  His breath caught as he took in the sight of John’s back.    
  
“Told you.  We don’t hide them.  They take a different form.  With a shirt, you’d never know they were here.”  John grinned and looked over his shoulder.  “What, did you think we made them invisible or something?”    
  
“Or something.”  Sherlock spoke softly and stepped closer.  His fingers trailed over the detailed tattoo that was now adorning John’s skin.  He could almost feel the feathers under his fingertips.  They appeared to be alive on John’s skin.  Alive and ready to burst from his back.  Which they could easily do.  Fascinating.  No wonder Fallen could walk among humans without being recognized.  Even if the wings were seen, most would assume the realism was the result of an excellent tattoo artist.  “You are descended from some type of falcon, aren’t you?”    
  
“Lagger Falcon.  Descended from the Middle East and India area.  My mother’s family came from there.”  John turned around to face Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.  “So are you going to ask, or should I just tell you, since you insist upon being stubborn?”    
  
“Ask?”  Sherlock offered John his coat and watched as John settled it around his shoulders.    
  
John sighed.  “We should not need to do anything more than remain in close proximity for the foreseeable future.  Since we live together, this shouldn’t be hard.  Most Fallen would have assumed you were my mate based on your current scent regardless.”  
  
“My scent?”    
  
John nodded.  “Yes.  You smell...different.  I can tell because I am looking for it.  I believe that is my own effect.”  He gave a wry grin.  “Falcons are very territorial you know.”  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.  “And what happens when they realize that we are not mated?”    
  
“Fallen mate for life Sherlock.  I know you are aware of that.  None of them will come near you now.”  John shrugged and tightened the coat around his bare chest.  A warm cup of tea would be necessary after this.    
  
“And when you find someone you actually wish to mate?”  Sherlock shot out, glaring at John.  
  
John froze and turned to look at Sherlock.  “Time to go home Sherlock.”    
  
Sherlock blinked and stared hard at John.  John had gone blank.  The story that had been there moments before, written in his eyes, in the twist of his mouth, it was all gone.  All the emotion erased like it had never existed in the first place.  A statue was now staring at him.  “Lead on then.”    
  
John turned and started to lead them towards the street where they could catch a cab.    
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is quite a bit shorter than the other two chapters, and for that, I apologize, but I promise I am going to make up for it with smut and a long chapter to finish this fic off with! And you got a bunch of details about John! And how Fallen hide their wings. 
> 
> Argh I am falling in love with this verse. I'm going to end up writing more, I can already feel it. <3 Comments and criticism are always welcome!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curious. Always so curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, for the moment. Thank you to MyLittleCornerOfSherlock for being the world's best cheerleader with this fic. I don't deserve you darling. <3

 

 

 

 

  
Did John already have a mate?  Had he had a mate and then lost them in Afghanistan?  Was he furious that he was now considered mated to a human?  Sherlock dismissed all of the ideas and steepled his fingers under his chin.  

Five months.  Five months and John had barely spoken of him being a Fallen.  There had been a few occasions where John had left for a few days, only to return smiling with every inch of his being.  It was easy to see what he had been doing.  Flying.  Those wings, bursting from his back, lifting John into the air, built for speed and agility.    
  
Yet they never spoke of it.  Any time he attempted to breach the topic, John found another way to avoid it.  Something they could talk about instead.  What was he hiding?  What was the point of hiding it?  He huffed.    
  
“Are you going to tell me what is bothering you, or are you going to continue to stare at the ceiling as though it has personally wronged you?”    
  
Sherlock shifted an eye and looked at John.  “What if it has wronged me?”    
  
John laughed.  “Then I would tell you to stare away.”   
  
“Excellent.  I will now continue to stare in peace.”  And try to understand the puzzle that was John Watson, but that went without saying.    
  
“Sherlock?”    
  
He did not bother to dignify John with a response.  One was not necessary.    
  
“You should stop trying to figure it out.  I’m not going to tell you why.”  John stood up and took his cup of tea to his room.    
  
Sherlock frowned at the now empty chair sitting seven feet, six inches away from him.  What made John Watson so special that he should be affected?  He closed his eyes again.  The now-familiar sight of folded wings curled against John’s back greeted him.  He cursed.  Could he think of nothing else?  He turned onto his side and glared at the couch cushions.    
  
  


 

 

 

  
  
Wings, spread wide in front of him, shielding him, protecting him.  Enticing him to sink his fingers deep into the feathers, touch the skin beneath, feel John thrash under him, and then over him.  Those beautiful wings spread over them both as John moved in him, taking him, claiming him properly as a mate.  Mate.  Such a proper word.  A powerful word.    
  
“Mine, aren’t you?  Pretty little bird that belongs to me.”    
  
Sherlock trembled, spreading his legs for John, his cock aching in a way that it had not since his teenage years.  “Yes.”  
  
“Say it.  Say what I am Sherlock.  Say it, my pretty little one.”  
  
“Mate, you’re my mate.  John, please!”  Sherlock arched under him, his fingers reaching out for John’s wings, just out of his reach. “I have to touch you, let me touch you please, please.”    
  
John’s eyes darkened as he stared down at Sherlock.  “You do beg so prettily.”    
  
“John, please-”  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
“SHERLOCK!  Wake the bloody hell up already!”  
  
Sherlock bolted upright on the couch, his hair a mess.  He took one look at John and flopped over, his back to John, his heart pounding wildly and his erection so insistent he was certain that if John so much as breathed on him he would reach orgasm.    
  
“What the hell were you dreaming about?  I could hear you calling my name from upstairs.”  John cleared his throat, trying to erase the desire now plainly evident for Sherlock to see.    
  
“Nothing.  Leave me in peace.”  Sherlock demanded.    
  
John didn’t bother moving.  His eyes trailed slowly up the long pale legs on display beneath the dressing gown.  It was unlikely Sherlock was wearing anything more than pants.  His body pulsed with desire.  Sherlock had called him mate.  Him.  “No.”    
  
Sherlock shivered and pressed a hand between his legs, willing himself to calm and to breathe.  Desire coiled, low and hot in his belly.  “Leave.  I do not want you here.”    
  
He was descended from a raptor.  He could recognize when prey was trying to hide from him.  Trying to conceal itself.  “Sherlock Holmes, made liar.  Are you afraid of me Sherlock?  Of what I might do if I claim you properly?”  
  
He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.  The razor edge of arousal at last began to subside.  “No.”    
  
“Liar.”  John whispered, stepping closer.  He reached out to touch Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Here I imagined myself content to know that you would simply carry my scent everywhere we went.  Fallen would know you are mine.  Now I find you, here, like this, calling for me, calling me mate.”  
  
“Do you understand Sherlock?  Do you understand what that means to a Fallen?”  John leaned down to press his face to Sherlock’s shoulder, the scent of him intoxicating.  He continued as though Sherlock had responded, determined to teach, to show him.  “It means you wish to claim me back.  It goes both ways.”  He trailed his lips higher, to the skin of Sherlock’s neck.  “Lifemates.”    
  
Sherlock swallowed, his body shaking.  His mind was at war with his body.  He wanted, oh he wanted.  Yet he could not hand himself over so easily. It was pointless.  “And when you tire of me?”  
  
John growled and moved quickly, flipping Sherlock to lay on his back, grabbing both of his wrists and pinning them above Sherlock’s head.  “Do not suggest it.  You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen, and you are mine!”  He leaned down to lick at Sherlock’s neck, his lips sealing around the spot to suck for a moment.  “That is where I would mark you Sherlock.  No need to break the skin, but a bright purple mark telling everyone you are mine?  Yes, I believe I would like that.  Very much.”    
  
He wanted to regret the decision to wear nothing more than pants.  He wanted to, he truly did.  But with John pressed against all of him, one firm thigh pressed between his legs and against his erection, Sherlock struggled for coherency.  “I will not be your mate.”  
  
John gave a dark chuckle.  “You already are in everything but this Sherlock.  We live together, you are covered in my scent.  To every Fallen out there?”  He nodded to the window before turning back to Sherlock.  “You are mine.”  He rocked his hips forward, slow and obvious.  Sherlock bucked under him and gave another groan.    
  
“Let me claim you, mate.  My pretty little bird.”  John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck again and felt the hard swallow he gave.  “Claim me back.  Call me mate.  I am yours.  Every piece of me.”  
  
Sherlock forced his eyes open.  “Every piece?”  His eyes went immediately to John’s shoulder, to the scar there.  To the wing tattoo that was so much more than a simple tattoo.  “Show me.”    
  
“Gladly, Jameel(beautiful).”  John pulled his shirt off and spread his wings in one smooth movement.  He folded them in close to keep them from wrecking havoc on the flat and stared down at Sherlock.  “Touch them.”    
  
His eyes widened as John released his wrists and lowered his head.  He brought the wings within reach and Sherlock itched to touch them, to sink his fingers deep into the dark brown mass.    
  
“Think of them like hair.  A little tugging and pulling feels good, even amazing.  Too hard hurts like hell.”  John explained, trailing the tips of one wing along Sherlock’s hair.    
  
Sherlock pressed his fingertips to the wing, absorbing every facet of the texture he could.  He looked at John again.  “I could pin you like you pinned that Eagle like this.”    
  
“Yes.”  John said simply.  “You could.”    
  
His eyes snapped to John’s face.  “You trust me that much?”  
  
John laughed.  “Sherlock.  You’ve seen my wings.  The one thing I do not show the world.  Of course I trust you you bloody git.”    
  
Sherlock trailed his fingertips over the feathers again, quiet.  The faint hum of arousal still sang through his veins, but it was muted now.  “Why me?”  
  
John smiled and stared down at Sherlock.  “You idiot.”  He leaned closer, pressing his wings to Sherlock’s hands.  “You didn’t care.  You still saw me as me.  I was never a creature to experiment on.”    
  
Sherlock scoffed.    
  
“It’s more important than you think.  Especially in a part of the world that fears Fallen as much as they do here.”  John pressed a slow kiss to the underside of Sherlock’s jaw.    
  
“Very well.  How do I go about claiming you then?”  He pressed his fingers a little harder against the wings, allowing his fingers to sink between the feathers.    
  
“You already have.”  John’s voice had become gravel-rough.  His rocked his hips against Sherlock with a groan.  “Touching my wings.  It’s something only for mates.  I’m yours Sherlock.”    
  
Sherlock waved an impatient hand before sinking it back into John’s feathers.  So warm.  “Then hurry up and do your part.”    
  
John chuckled and licked his lips.  “Need to take care of my pretty mate first.”  He rocked his hips forward again, starting an easy rhythm.  “Tell me what you were dreaming of that had you calling out for me.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed.  That was something he did want to detail, yet John's eyes, pleased and warm had him speaking before he meant to.  “I was imagining touching your wings.  Much like this.”  He trailed his fingers through the stiff feathers again and shuddered.  So beautiful.  “You wouldn’t let me.”  He kept his gaze firmly on the feathers under his fingertips.  “You made me beg.  Call you mate.”  
  
A low hum left his throat.  John rocked against Sherlock again, giving him the rough friction he was clearly craving.  Sherlock arched beneath him, the sight beautiful, mesmerizing.  “Did you want to?”  
  
“Yes.”  His voice cracked on the word.  Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, the movements of his hips turning frantic as he clenched down on John’s wings.  He remembered at the last moment to keep the touch gentle and loosened the grip he had.    
  
John growled.  “Say it.”  Arousal slammed through him when Sherlock clenched at his wings again.  “My mate.  Say it.  Say you are mine.”  John ordered, leaning down to where their lips were only a few inches apart.  
  
Sherlock let out a keening moan, his legs trembling.  He opened his mouth to try and say something, anything.  “John, I, John…”  
  
“Say it.”  John purred, brushing his nose against Sherlock’s, his body moving easily with Sherlock.  His orgasm was right there, just beyond his reach.  “Say it for me Sherlock.  Say that you’re mine.”    
  
“Mine.  Mate.”  Sherlock swallowed.  Now that he’d said the word, he could not keep quiet.  “My mate, John, mine.”  He could feel the truth of the words, visceral and real, pressing into his chest.  “John!”  
  
Sherlock’s words were pure pleasure, sliding down his spine.  “Yes.”  His heart was pounding, loud and insistent.  “Yes.”  John trailed his lips down Sherlock’s neck, to the spot just above his collarbone.  “Mine.”  He growled, sealing his lips on the patch of skin, sucking hard before biting down.  
  
His orgasm was a tidal wave of sensation.  Fire erupting from his shoulder where John had bit him, and a full-body shiver that started in his stomach that left him trembling against the couch, staring up at John.  Sherlock pulled his hands away from John’s wings, smoothing down the mussed feathers.  “I pulled too hard.”    
  
John had known that his mate’s orgasm would trigger his own, but he had not expected the power and emotion that had washed over him.  His mate had been on fire for him.  “No.”  He whispered, his voice hoarse.  “You were perfect.  As I knew you would be.”    
  
Sherlock relaxed back into the couch, trying to focus and return his heart rate to a normal pace.  “What now?”    
  
John climbed off of Sherlock and held out his hand.  “You need a shower.  I need to touch, kiss and worship every inch of your body.  Might need your help grooming my wings.”

Sherlock gave himself a few moments to be sure he would be able to stand before he rose from the couch.  “Is that all?”    
  
John rolled his eyes.  “I’m going to be a mite possessive.  I won’t like other people touching you.  I will dislike being apart from you.  I am not going to take a pen and write ‘Mine’ on your forehead or whatever other stupid rumors you may have heard.”  He stood and stretched, combing down a few additional feathers that had been knocked out of place.  “Oh, I will also make sure that you know that you are the most beautiful person in the world every day of your life.”  John smirked at Sherlock, stepping closer.  “And I’m not going to do that by telling you.”    
  
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “Ah.  I suggest a shower then.”    
  
His wings retreated into his back in a quick motion.  “Agreed.  Then tea and dinner.  You will need your strength this evening.”    
  
“Of course.”  

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably going to be a 'verse. Especially since I put a five-month gap in there where I have ideas for plenty of ficlets. I don't know about another multi-chapter continuation to this, but we'll see what's in the cards. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support and comments. Feel free to leave ideas and any criticisms! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe that I'm writing Wing!Lock. It's only out of love. I swear.
> 
> Comments and Criticisms welcome!
> 
> You can find me here: http://aria-lerendeair.tumblr.com/
> 
> You can also watch me write fics like this (and dozens of others) live! Follow me on Livestream for fics, shenanigans and a general all-around awesome time! http://new.livestream.com/accounts/7212317


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